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The Poetry Pages

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I can't wait for you to grow up.
Pay the rent, get a mortgage,
a car, something of your own.

I can't wait for the day,
when someone like you,
(under four foot tall,)
a stone in their hand,
shatters a window,
spray paints your car, cuts your tyres,
blocks your path with a smile
on your way to the shops.

For now, I'm waiting in shadows,
secure in the truth,
that you're still short enough
to be afraid of the dark.

I'm in that darkness,
within the company of strangers.
Hear me whisper when you walk -- alone.

I'm the language of leaves
on black trees.
I'm talking with spectres 'round corners.
Feeding red raw meat
to the salivating monster
nesting beneath your bed.

I'm in the pitch black,
chattering, yellowed, cracked teeth
to floating grey figures,
always sharpening their claws.

We're getting to know you.
All about you.

In fact,
we can't wait for you.

The Charm of Waiting

Poem by Julie Turner

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Copyright The Bentilean 1999

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